


What if John Watson had a tumblr?

by honeywolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 04:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeywolf/pseuds/honeywolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could keep a diary, of course, but the chance of Sherlock finding it some day, and reading it, would be even higher than this way. He even created a new e-mail address for this blog and uses a password which consists of upper and lower case letters, numbers and special characters. And he refrained from using his birthday or something relatable to him. So how on earth could Sherlock find this blog?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What if John Watson had a tumblr?

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this one happened because a friend an me were talking about John Watson having a tumblr where he keeps all his kinky stuff... The result is.. not so kinky, much more fluffy. Very fluffy.  
> also, the blog is a real thing.

_the way his lips part when he sleeps_

John pauses, smiling. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment, before he presses “post”. His eyes scan the dark blue surface of his “dashboard”, as it is called, but there isn't much on there aside from his own posts. He doesn't follow any blogs yet, and to be honest, he doesn't want to. Instead, he wants to keep his “tumblr” personal, much more personal than his other blog. It's highly unlikely that someone is ever going to find out about this blog, he is careful of not using any names, hell, he doesn't even write full sentences – just some tiny fragments of his life, or, should he say, tiny fragments of the one thing he values most. Sherlock.

He doesn't know when he started playing with the thought of signing up on tumblr, or any other blog actually, to keep this weird sort of diary. He isn't sure he actually thought about it, to be honest; he just came to the point of noticing this particular feeling in the back of his head, this desire to share his... desire. He could keep a diary, of course, but the chance of Sherlock finding it some day, and reading it, would be even higher than this way. He even created a new e-mail address for this blog and uses a password which consists of upper and lower case letters, numbers and special characters. And he refrained from using his birthday or something relatable to him. So how on earth could Sherlock even find this blog? He even makes sure to clear his browser history after spending time on tumblr.

“What are you smiling at?” Sherlock wants to know suddenly, looking up from some book he is reading. John only raises his eyebrows and looks at him with the best impression of a poker face he can possibly manage.

“Nothing in particular, really.”

“Hm.” Sherlock smirks and his eyes travel back to his book, taking no account of John anymore for the next few hours.

_the way he can lose himself completely in books or thoughts_

After a couple of weeks on tumblr and still no sign of Sherlock noticing anything, he decides to take things one step further by changing his URL into “mysterious-cheekbones.tumblr.com”. He clearly remembers himself telling Sherlock to stop “being all mysterious with his cheekbones” and even more clearly he remembers the realization that hit him afterwards. Realization of something he still does not want to put into words. Instead, he keeps collecting little bits and pieces of Sherlock, like the way his eyes become intensely blue in the sunlight, or the way his hair, tousled and chaotic, makes him look so much younger when he wakes up.

Still, he doesn't tell. So whenever Sherlock catches him smiling or licking his lips after posting something, whenever he asks about his suddenly so incredibly happy mood, whenever he catches him staring at Sherlock for too long (though it only happened once), John says it's nothing.

_the way he makes me laugh about the stupidest things_

After a while, his posts change. He doesn't even notice it at first, but then, after re-reading his old posts, it strikes him. His observations are less and less about how Sherlock looks, they are even less and less about Sherlock altogether, and instead more about himself, John. He is shocked to say the least, after he reads through his posts of the last couple of days.

_the way I love it when his voice is the first thing I hear in the morning_

_the way his smile evokes this feeling inside of me – a feeling I can't quite describe_

_the way sometimes he seems so fragile that I just want to put my arms around him and hug him closely_

This time, when Sherlock comes around and asks why he is blushing and his hand comes to a rest right next to John's, touches him a little bit, he just blushes even harder and doesn't say anything.

He stops logging into tumblr for a while after that, desperate to forget what he had written, desperate to act as naturally as possible when he's around Sherlock, but of course it doesn't work. Sherlock notices, he's sure of that, but he doesn't comment on it, which is strange, because he usually comments on everything. In his denial, John doesn't notice though. He doesn't notice the smirk and the raised eyebrow. He tries not to notice anything – not the way he looks at him, not the way his voice sends shivers down John's spine.

Weeks after the “incident”, as he calls it in his head, he still doesn't feel any different. Or maybe he does – Sherlock haunts his dreams, and what first had been only a silhouette, pressing against his body, breath tickling his skin, had soon changed into his flatmate, intense blue eyes staring right into his, when he feels a hand gliding down his body, in his pants, brushing over his cock lightly, teasingly, while Sherlock's lips come near, almost touching John's -

He wakes up sweating, doing his best to ignore his arousal.

It is then when he stops sleeping. He manages catching a few hours of sleep every night, tossing and turning, but he wakes up night after night to the aftermath of his dreams, getting more and more intense every time he goes to bed. The Sherlock in his dreams never kisses him though and John sinks back into his cushions every night, feeling partly disgusted and partly turned on by the idea of his flatmate digging his teeth into his skin when he comes, collapsing above him, screaming his name. A much bigger part of him is simply longing for more, though.

It is one of these nights after lying in bed for an hour, waiting for his hard-on to disappear, when John decides to go to the living room, maybe watching some TV on mute, maybe just browsing the internet or updating his blog. His _real_ blog, not the guilty pleasure he tries not to think about.

He notices the lights are on when he makes his way to the living room, for a second expecting Sherlock to sit there bent over his laptop, doing research, or sitting there with a jar full of intestines of very questionable origin, studying them intensely. Instead, when he walks to the sofa, he sees Sherlock lying there, passed out, a book still on his lap. Smiling, he takes the book, closes it and puts it on the coffee table next to him. He stops his movement when Sherlock sighs and turns to his side, even catches himself stop breathing until he is sure his friend hasn't woken up.

He almost wants to go to sleep again, but he doesn't, instead he puts a blanket over Sherlock, he even smirks when his friend snuggles against it. He really _does_ look younger when he's sleeping, beautiful even, with the sharp angles of his face and his light skin, and the curling tips of his hair falling onto his forehead. In retrospect, he doesn't know how long he has been standing there, what had made him fumbling out his phone from his pocket, and taking a picture of Sherlock sleeping so innocently. Whatever the reasons may have been, the thought of having captured this particular moment evokes a warm feeling in his stomach, one he hadn't felt in a while now.

It must have been the fact that it is almost morning again, the light of dawn painting London in an eery light, and he couldn't have slept for more than three hours, but at some point John finds himself back on tumblr, back on his dashboard which is only full of his own posts. He hesitates for a moment – but then he pulls out his phone, looking for the picture of Sherlock. It takes longer that he wants to admit to find the option, but eventually he finds it: “share on tumblr”. And so he does.

Days pass and he finds himself logging into this particular website every single day, but instead of posting his so-called observations, he is staring onto Sherlock's picture, wanting it to stay right there, on the top of his blog.

“Can I use your laptop?” Sherlock asks later, when John half-lost in a novel, and it's such a strange thing coming from him that John is baffled for a second, managing only to nod when Sherlock takes it from the coffee table. He studies him opening it, and panic streams through him, _because has he forgotten to erase his browser history?_ But Sherlock doesn't do so much as raise an eyebrow, which is why John finds himself being consumed by his book soon again.

Something changes over the course of the next couple of weeks. He can't point at what it is, exactly – maybe it is himself, somehow coping with having a serious crush on Sherlock, maybe it is Sherlock, who he keeps catching staring at him from time to time, who is smiling mysteriously every now and then. He still has his dreams, but instead of waiting for his erection to fade, he just closes his eyes instead, imagining Sherlock's hands on him, his mouth around him while he takes care of himself.

One day then, after logging into tumblr again, he decides it is time to post something new.

_I met him the day we moved in together. I already wrote about this one other time, but what I didn't write then was the way he made me feel, when he smirked at me, when he met my eyes with this challenging look. He made me feel alive again. He gave me what I needed most back then. I don't know when I started seeing my flatmate in a different way. I don't know when I started liking how light his skin was, how his hair curled on the edges. I don't know when I started noticing the sharp angles of his face or his long, delicate fingers. I only noticed what I was thinking when I spoke it out loud one day._

_I can't remember the exact words, but I told him something along the lines of “Stop being all mysterious with your cheekbones,” and he was as surprised about it as I was. But when I signed up for tumblr months later, for no particular reason, I was still in denial about my fascination for him. And it took me so long to notice – it took me months. Months of writing about every tiny feature of him that made me happy, every feature of him that made my heart pump faster. And still I thought of it as pure fascination, nothing more. It took me months and re-reading my whole blog until I noticed how far I had fallen for him and it took me an embarrassing series of very explicit dreams until I stopped ignoring it._

_Still, it is painful to watch him every day and knowing that he is never allowed to know. Not because I don't want him to but because I am sure he doesn't feel the same way. I'm more than sure, actually. And as much as I long for him to touch me, for him to kiss me, I value our friendship even more, especially since telling him might end it._

_This being said, this will be my last entry. I might never overcome the fact that I fell in love with him. But for my own sanity, I will concentrate on our friendship and nothing more._

He sighs when he hits the “post” button, and for a moment he feels truly sad about having to give up all of this, but on the other hand a weight has been lifted from his shoulders, now that he had it in front of him, in cold print. He was in love with Sherlock.

“What's the matter?” Sherlock says, sitting opposite of him, looking up from his own laptop. He has a cup of tea in both of his hands and the tip of his nose is slightly pink from the hot steam. John just looks up, a small smile on his lips and thinks of the one time Sherlock had asked him what he was smiling at, oblivious to the fact that John had just posted something about him on tumblr.

“Nothing in particular,” John says.

He stares out of the window for a while after that, every once in a while looking back on the screen of his laptop, his cursor still pointed on the log out button. He plays with the thought of clicking it, but he knows it's a point of no return, so he takes his hands off the touchpad again, continuing staring out of the window, lost in thought.

An unfamiliar sound startles him shortly after he drifted off. He is violently pulled out of his daydream, Sherlock chuckling under his breath when he almost kicks his notebook from his lap. When he catches it, he notices the unfamiliar “1” telling him he got a message. That's strange – he never got a message before and he catches himself drawing a deep breath before opening it.

_It's sad to hear you want to abandon your blog. I personally found it quite enjoyable. I'm still amused by your assumptions though, John. Why on earth would you keep these thoughts from me? What made you think your feelings for me would destroy our friendship? Because they wouldn't. - SH_

John jerks up when he feels the hand on his shoulder. He didn't even notice Sherlock get up. He turns his head to him and sees him smiling brightly, although somewhat mischievously when he bends down to him.

“Don't underestimate me, John.”

He is terribly close, so close that John can feel his breath on his cheek, Sherlock's lips almost touching his skin. Sherlock's hand moves from his shoulder to his chin, gliding over his skin tentatively, moving John's head to face him. Sherlock moves closer, still smirking, his eyes fixed on him even when his lips touch John's and it isn't even a kiss for it is over before John realizes it, but he blushes nonetheless and Sherlock grins, clearly enjoying the situation.

“How long have you known about my blog?” is the first thing John asks after he remembers how to speak again.

“From the very beginning,” Sherlock tells him, cupping his face with his hands and kissing him, this time for real.


End file.
